


Another take on Fame

by finlyfoe



Series: Fame & Fortune [2]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Coping, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Gen, New Horizons, Press and Tabloids, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:19:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an alternative version of my fiction "Fame" - the first part of both stories is identical, I take another road from Fame-chapter 5 onwards.<br/>So: *If you know Fame, feel free to start this fiction with ch. 5* -</p><p>After Berlin: Peter Quinn recovering. Until the press finds out the guy we all saw die is alive...<br/>Post s.5 - possible bridge to s.6</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everlasting 15 minutes

**Author's Note:**

> originally a prompt-fill and dedicated to bwg71 who wrote:  
> "I'd actually really be interested in how Quinn handles being recognised (or 'famous') - he's so private and reserved and self-contained"
> 
> this is a darker version in different ways

###  [Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7657813/chapters/17436793): Everlasting 15 minutes

### Chapter Text

  1. **Rumor**



Friday night at a trendy club in Washington. Two girl-friends, two drinks, some gossiping.

"... right there on the beach, it must have been him,  different haircut and all but he gave her that look and if Harold hadn’t called that very instant…”

“Prince doing the Elvis? I don’t know… - But I _know_ who's alive though we’ve all seen him die… My sister works at Walter Reed’s, she's been treating him.... Have a guess!“

“No idea… The Houston girl??! Seymour whatshisname?!”

“In a military hospital, come on…!  The guy from the video. The one the terrorists killed with gas. That was sick…. so sick…

“ _That_ guy?! The one with the spitting and vomiting and -“

“all those other body fluids, yeah, the very one.”

“No!”

“Yes! Alive and kicking, my sister says.”

“Gawds, that’s worse than the moonlanding stunt…”

“Toyah, don’t start on that AGAIN! … they didn’t make it up to make them terrorists seem bad…. It was all real, the clip gone viral. And those guys _were_ bad. It’s … he survived. Somehow. …. Hardly more than a vegetable at first, my sister says...”

“Didn’t you just say “alive and kicking”?”

 

 

**2\. Trojan Horse**

A shrink. Again.  
Peter Quinn stares at the lady, about his age but giving him this _motherly_ look as if she was really concerned, as if this wasn’t her job but her - vocation. Her hair is in a spinsterlike knot though her earrings are trendy, he can spot a tattoo under her sleeve, he has no idea whether it is a letter or something pictorial. She wears a hospital frock.

“Shall we sit and chat, Peter? I brought you a coffee.” She puts down a papermug in front of him. “Or would you prefer some tea?” Her voice sounds like candy cotton, too sweet and too light. She opens her huge handbag and takes out a box of donuts. A wave of nausea floods his stomach.

He just came back from manual therapy. He was looking forward to collapsing on the bed, taking two painkillers and falling asleep. Instead he is forced to sit upright on a chair and face a shrink. He has one hour before the next therapy session and he needs a rest. And he’s not too fond of shrinks. Never has been. He'll keep his guard.  
On the other hand, she’s only doing her job. And she’s trying. Bringing coffee and stuff.

“How do you feel, Peter? You still look pale and thin.”

“Oh I am grand, just grand.”

She gives him an empathetic smile. “I know this isn’t easy but…”

“Thing is, nobody told me you were coming, and I hate surprises….”

“I understand. I am sorry to bother you, Peter. We take it easy, how does that sound? So tell me, how are you today?”

 “Grand. As already stated.”

She sighs. A patient motherly sigh. “OK. Right from the beginning. How long have you been  here?”

“72 days here at Walter Reed’s, 153 at Ramstein, makes 226 since the gassing. Why do you folks keep on asking, I know who I am and where I am, I know the date, the name of the president, I am not demented or anything.”

“That’s good to hear. How are you coping?”

“OK I guess. For the details check my file.”

“I’d like to hear it in your own words. How’s your prognosis?”

“Better than expected. I am alive.”

“What about chronic inflictions?”

“Phases of headaches. Drowsiness. Blurred vision. Cramps. Impeded breathing.”

“On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 hardly any restrictions, 10 a total restricted life?”

“A seven?”

“What about your sex life? “

Oh wouldn’t she love to read his mind right now. Which triggers his stoneface.  “What about it?”

“How do you get along? Are there major - restrictions? How did it change -“

“It’s not a priority right now.”

“Does your partner agree on this?”

He crosses his arms, well aware it is a “I-shut-you-out”-gesture. “A partner is not a priority right now.”

She takes it in, nods.  “I see. Are glad you are alive?”

He rolls his eyes.  “I am not thinking about doing myself in if that’s what you want to ask, do I have to repeat it twice a week, do you guys never talk or exchange notes or anything?”

“That’s good”, she says, “life is a gift, you were very lucky… so were your loved ones. How are _they_ coping by the way…? ”

His eyes stay alert.  “You’d have to ask that the loved ones I guess.”

She smiles and takes out a little black book. “That’s an excellent idea. So who should I ask?”

He flashes a smile. “You never read that file, did you?”

She smiles back and gets up. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Peter.”

Before he can react, she gives him a hug.  She notices how he stiffens at the unexpected touch. “I am sure there will be a time when you need somebody... I’ll be around. Oh and do you mind if I take a photo?”

“Course I do. Bad hair-day I am afraid.”

She hesitates, then smiles that motherly smile again, pats his back and leaves.

Against better judgement Peter grabs one of the donuts.

 

 

**3\. Vultures**

Five minutes before Carrie and Frannie are off to visit Quinn at Walter Reed’s, Carrie gets a voicemail.

 “Hey Carrie, it’s Quinn. Sorry about the short term notice… don’t bring Frannie.”

She is annoyed.  
They have planned this for weeks - Quinn was eager to see Frannie so Carrie organized to bring her all the way from New York City.  On his birthday. Otherwise he’d probably ignore it, but they won’t let him. They got him a tricky jigsaw puzzle, made blueberry-muffins, got candles and crackers and Frannie drew a picture of Quinn the giant all smiley, a bird on his head.  
Who does he think he is - calling it off last minute?! Not even bothering to pick up his phone and tell her but sending a frigging voice-mail?! A few weeks back to consciousness and already starting to be a nuisance again. Before she can dial his number and give him a proper tell-off, she receives another voice-mail.

“On second thoughts… Better stay away yourself.” He sounds up-tight.

She calls him right away.

“Yeah” he goes before the first ringing tone, obviously expecting her call.

“Quinn, what’s that bullshit? What’s up?”

“We’re under siege.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Newscrowds at the entrance. OB-vans, journalists, curious by-standers. The usual.”

“Ah, another minister of defence in for surgery or the Bibis of the world commemorating your birthday?”…”

“Did you have a clown for breakfast?”

 “So why are they over there?”

“Lazarus laughing.”

“Oh shit.”

“Tell me.”

“A leak?”

“Looks like it.”

“Quinn - you’re not setting this up to keep us away? In order to indulge in another lonely miserable birthday?”

“Turn on your TV. CNN.”

She does. Breaking news running through on the bottom of the page - Gas victim alive? … - Shots of a huge news crowd outside Walter Reed’s.

“Holy shit Quinn... Adal has to do something about it…”

“Like what? Undoing what’s been done?” If this wasn’t Quinn she’d say it’s a voice on the verge of tears.

“I’ll come down.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“You don’t wanna be caught on camera, right? It’s a fucking nightmare… Stay the fuck away.”

 

 

**4\. PR**

An absent-minded Peter Quinn, sitting on the bed, head in hands, staring at the wall, reluctantly takes Dar Adal’s call.

“Happy birthday Peter…”

“Fuck my birthday, what about these fuckers down there?”

“Yes, an unpleasant situation, I am aware.... I am at the cafeteria right now, come down so I can give you intel on our strategy. I brought donuts..”

“I fucking hate donuts! Every fucking time you bring fucking donuts! You even tell your fucking shrink to bring fucking donuts!”

“My shrink? Are you delirious?”

“Woman, fortyish, tattoo… Showed up yesterday.”

“A shrink? I didn’t send a shrink. Let alone a woman. “

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Adal has a little theory on Peter and women but doesn’t intend to go into any details, so he just repeats: “I didn’t send you a shrink.”

“Fuck.”

Silence.

_Fuck Fuck Fuck._

“Peter, would you move your ass right NOW?”

\----

The cafeteria is empty. With the exception of Dar Adal and Peter Quinn, seated at a large table, facing each other. A box of donuts between them.

“We have to turn it around. We need you on the podium.” Adal takes another bite of a pink donut-

“No way, I already did my time on camera… ”

“If we don’t provide you, rumors will grow out of proportion.”

“If I sit there, it’s my picture all over the news again. The public memory renewed. They’ll recognize me everywhere. Fucking everywhere. I am not joining that board. I am not. You can’t fucking force me.”

Adal sighs.  “Peter, which is worse - facts or rumors? - You’ll sit there, you’ll answer two or three questions we’ll arrange beforehand, no surprises, no nothing.”

“I agree on no nothing.”

 “Don’t make me order it.”

 “Why don’t you shoot me here and now?”

“Peter, don’t dramatize.- Another suggestion. An alternative. No cameras. A few handpicked newspaper journalists get access. The New York Times, the Washington Post, the Guardian, Le Monde…”

“Access to -?”

“Don’t play daft. You of course.”

“You are seriously suggesting a fucking home-story?

“You don’t even have a home, Peter…  It’s about staying in control. They’ll reveal things we let them reveal.”

“As if that ever worked…  Why can’t Peter Quinn stay dead? You _promised_ I would get a new I.D. to avoid this- harassment.”

“It is too late for that. Somebody has talked, sold evidence, bragged in a club, whatever… If we keep up, it will damage our credibility. I can't allow it.”

“And it won’t harm your credibility to bring back a dead solder? Confirmed dead? What is this, fucking Game of Thrones?”

“Calm down. We have brought in a professional to help us.”

Adal picks up his phone, dials a number, waits a few seconds and the door opens as if by magic. A man in his late twenties, rosy cheeks, eager face, shining eyes and receding hairline, storms in.

“Peter, this is Mark Tryson, our PR advisor on this.”

Mark stumbles forward, hand outstretched.

“It’s a pleasure Peter and an honor, I admire your work and your dedication and I will do my utmost to find the very best solution for this awkward situation.”

Quinn sighs and lets his head sink down on the table. Great, so he now has his very own PR advisor…

 

Half an hour and many elaborate sentences later Quinn is even more concerned. He tries a Hail Mary: “What if anybody digs into my background?“

“Don’t worry”, Adal purrs, “we already made a stress test. Probability is they won’t find … ugly stuff.”

“Probability is?! You need a fucking guarantee! What about the clusterfuck with Javadi’s women… that was in the neighbourhood, there’s a photo, a signed confession! “

Adal seems to lose his patience.  “Stop shouting at me, Peter. You will do whatever we decide is best. If Mark and I say you are to talk with the press, you will.”

“Sir - Peter”, Mark throws in, a loyal believer in appeasement, “please… it is all a question of the viewpoint. This is not a disaster, it is a big opportunity. Peter, you could become an idol, we need those, don’t we. If we take the right steps, direct this carefully, it will be a success story. Peter Quinn will be - a brand. A deacon for the work the agency does. Self-sacrificing and courageous.”

This is the moment to jump at the guy and break his neck. Jaded Peter however turns to his old mentor, eyes very dark and serious. “I don’t have a switch, Adal. You told me to be invisible, you taught me how to disappear, it can’t be undone. It can’t be undone. If you force me to go public, things might not turn out the way you like it. If they are to get to know me… they might get to know more than you feel comfortable with…”

Adal has to suppress a sneer: His guy tries to threaten him…?! “Don’t be childish, Peter. … Just let them know the hero is safe. You did brave back there. Very brave.”

It takes him off balance. A compliment by Dar Adal… told for tactical reasons most likely, but still… Peter gives in with a sigh and pulls himself up to leave.

Adal decides to have checked on him every ten minutes tonight. Just in case his guy plans something stupid. Again.

 

 

**5\. Late Visitor**

Carrie knocks at Quinn’s door. No reply. She opens - he sits on his beds, leaning against the wall, a look of utter exhaustion on his face. God he has grown old over his last years - grey streaks in his hair, his body heartbreakingly boney and sinewy, veins sticking out. He opens his eyes and she half expects him to yell at her. But no-

“Hi Carrie” he says softly, “I didn’t expect you today.”

“I said I would come, didn’t I?!” She moves over and sits down next to him. “Happy birthday Quinn. They wouldn’t let me bring champagne so we can’t toast…”

“Yeah, I’ve become a teetotaler lately.” He tries to keep it light, he really tries.

“I brought you a 5000-parts-puzzle to do your combinatory talent and your famous patience justice.” She gives him a wink and hands him the puzzle.

“Yeah and not at all to improve my fine motor skills… Thanks Carrie. I appreciate it.” He puts it on the bedside table and just looks at her. So she smiles and hugs him.  “I also brought some muffins…” she whispers in his ear.

Instead of answering, he softly collapses on her shoulder.  
It feels like fucking Berlin again.

Which reminds her: They have to talk about that letter. Soon.

She reaches out for the call-button.

 

 

**6\. Pyrrhus**

This time, for a change, Quinn gets his way. He doesn’t sit on Adal's podium. There is a price to pay, there always is: He has suffered a relapse, that’s why he’s spared.  
“He puked all over the room”, nurse Gabriel, 6ft 2, Caribbean smile, informs Adal who comes by first thing in the morning.

Adal gives him a stern look. He wouldn’t put it past Peter to do this intentionally. He might have provoked the relapse. Left out some meds or took a higher dosage …

 “Did you watch him take his meds?”

“Sir, why are you asking?”

“We had an argument and he seemed willing to go great lengths to avoid today’s appointment.”

Gabriel gives him a dark look. “Sir, a relapse might well be provoked by a major emotional upheaval. He is working hard on getting better, he wouldn’t risk his health. Never.”

It’s a lie. Gabriel has noticed Quinn left out his night meds. It might have been unintentional though. And he’s no  informer.

 

 

**7\. Strange encounter**

“Jesus Quinn, I was worried… will you please stop this relapsing shit?”

“It’s you people bringing donuts and stuff. Trying to poison me”, he says, munching another one of the blueberry muffins she brought the day before.

They sit on his bed, a tabloid paper between them. So he made the headlines once again - today it’s “The lonely hero”.  The so-called shrink managed to take a picture of him, he didn’t even notice. It is slightly out of focus, which doesn’t help. He looks haggard and defeated but he is clearly recognizable.

“My, girls from all over the world will drown you in love-letters and proposals. Some guys too.”

“Great”, he goes, “I’ll accept one from North Korea and go AWOL.”

She grins. “That will make a marvelous book - a documentary - you could sell the rights to some major network.”

He sighs. “I’ve become so fucking slow. God, how could I miss she was a journalist! Shrinks never touch you, right.”

“You let her touch you?”

“I said I am slow. Inhibited. Can’t even fight off grabby women anymore.”

“This calls for retirement.”

“Right, not all my other little ailments. Fuck, how come she blindsided me…”

“In your current state you are easy prey, Quinn. Come on, get moving, we’ll go for a coffee downstairs.”

Gabriel has told her Quinn refuses to leave the room, seems virtually paralyzed. That’s why she tries to lure him out. He shakes his head. She insists until he finally gives in. The usual Carrie-Quinn-interaction.

Down at the cafeteria, Quinn plunges at a table in a corner, next to a huge potted plant. Carrie smiles, imaging him duck into that plant in case any enemy - journalist, fangirl, terrorist - shows up, and queues for the coffee.

A teenage boy comes in, pushing his mum in a wheelchair. Sees Quinn, takes a long look. Stops the wheelchair at a table in the opposite corner. Helps his mum get comfortable. Throws another glance at Quinn. Takes his cell-phone out and comes over.

“Hey man, can I take a selfie?” he goes and gets very close, cheek to cheek, before stunned and embarrased Peter can react. “You are my hero, you really are, will you go back and hunt those bastards down?”- The teenager doesn’t even wait for a reply, he grimaces at Peter and slouches back to his mum, then turns and gives Peter a victory sign.

“You’re alright?” Carrie wants to know on coming back. Quinn looks like a ghoul: Greenish face, sweat beads on his forehead.

“Carrie, can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Like - a big favor?”

“Sure, I mean - it depends… I am not going to kill any anchorman for you…”

“I need a few days off, I need to think how to get out of this clusterfuck. That PR fucker goes on about Oprah and  home stories and career opportunities… Can you take me somewhere, somewhere private, just for a few days?”

His eyes are huge and desperate, and she gulps.

“Quinn I would, but- I don’t want to endanger you, you need the doctors, the therapies…”

“Just for a week-end, please?”

God he looks so needy, so desperate… A wave of love and pity washes over her. They _have_ to talk about that letter… not now though.

“OK”, she says, “I’ll try my best. What about I rent some hut on Virgina Beach?”

He gives her one of his rare spectacular smiles and a slip of paper: “Will you get those for me… for a safe escape?”

“I am relieved. Only half a shopping list for diy-explosives... Hydrogen peroxide... Colored contact-lenses..."

“It’s that or plastic surgery. Your choice.”

She starts grinning. “Wow, now let me weigh the options before I decide…”

“On second thoughts - forget it, I’ll ask Gabriel to do the shopping…”


	2. Treats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Carrie's help, Quinn plans to escape public pressure - and has to face some other unexpected issues

**1\. Transmutation**

Peter Quinn stares at the ginger in front of him, sheer terror in his eyes.

“Strawberry blonde suits you”, Carrie jokes and runs her hand over Quinn’s hair, cropped short and dyed.

“No way”, he goes, “this won’t do. It has to be blonde, real blonde, like platinum blonde or white blonde or Jean Harlow blonde or whatever. Not - THAT. Put on another round of peroxide.”

“Quinn, listen - you DO look different. That’s what this is about, right? With all these red pigments in your hair we might need two or three further rounds to turn you into Jean Harlow and - I mean, you had several head-surgeries, we probably shouldn’t have used _any_ hairdye in the first place. Not to mention it would take hours… We better finish here, pick up Frannie and get going. So we get to the beach asap.”

He throws another glance at the mirror. Shit, he and Brody have too much in common… Sniper, believed to be dead, facing public hysteria, Achilles heel Carrie. And now the hair color. The irony is not lost on him. 

“Didn’t I know you are into gingers” he snarls and gets a shove for it.

She throws the rubber gloves away, puts her hand on her hip and looks at him expectantly: “So off we go, Quinn!”

He’s not ready though. Brows furrowed, he goes through a little plastic bag from Walgreens. “Where are the contact lenses - ?“

“Ehm… Forget the lenses. Blue looks great with strawberry blonde… and better not fuss with your eyes, Quinn, you already have to deal with blurs and auras…”

He completely ignores her plea and carries on with his frantic search: “Where the fuck are they?”

“I didn’t get any.”

She likes his eyes, the depth behind the blue. She figured if she is to help him, she deserves a little treat, so: no colored contact lenses.

There’s a whole week-end before them. They really should talk about that letter.

 

 

**2\. Two at the beach**

It’s a beautiful summer evening at Virgina Beach, at least three hours before sunset.

Carrie smiles to herself and covertly takes a picture before she’s off to get the keys to the beach hut. The two gingers are to stay back at the beach, ploughing through the sand. Franny and Quinn, each furnished with a plastic shovel and sand moles, have decided to build the most impressive castle since Neuschwanstein.

Quinn, in shorts and T-shirt, limps to the water's edge and refills a little red bucket for the umpteenth time. It is important the sand has the perfect consistency - not too wet, not too dry, Frannie has admonished him in a _very_ serious voice. She scrutinizes their work so far with a proud eye. Time to collect some shells for decoration purposes. She walks a few steps, eyes fixed on the ground -

until all of a sudden she screams in horror.

In a flash Quinn drops the bucket, spins around, jogs over (with a limp) and snatches her away from a huge dog, the source of her horror. The dog gives them a doleful look.

“Quinnie, Quinnie”, Frannie screams in a high pitch, “it’s a monster, it will eat us.”

“Shhh, your majesty, you are perfectly safe.”

She whimpers on his arm: “What if it’s hungry?”

 “Aw, it won’t eat us. We are far too big.”

He pats the beast’s head. A Great Dane, grey snout, no aggressive behavior, thank God.

“It’s a dog, a friendly dog, look at its tail, that’s the way it says “hi” to us… -“   

With one hand he covers his eyes against the sun and scans the surroundings for the owners. Nearby a young couple is making out on a beach towel, oblivious to the rest of the world, let alone any frightened kids.

He walks up to them, trying to take deep and steady breaths. Quivering Frannie clinging to his arm is a strain but no way he would admit it.

“Excuse me”, he goes from a distance, voice raised while walking on, “is this your dog?”

Reluctantly the girl entangles and looks up.

“Yeah, why?”

“Look, I know this is a friendly dog but it is huge and it is peak season, the dog shouldn’t be running around. People get frightened…”

It’s his stress test. He passes. No awkward questions (“do I know you?...”), no selfie requests. Just some hurried apologizes. The guy rummages through a cool bag and takes out a candy bar. Frannie, miraculously allayed, leaves Quinn’s arm to get her treat.

“What about your dad”, the guy goes, “would he also like a candy?”

Frannie is stunned.

“No, no thanks,” Peter hastily replies.

“Maybe a beer?”

“No thank you, I am fine.” He smiles and offers Frannie a hand. She takes it. The two of them walk back in silence. At their construction site Quinn lets go of her hand to get the bucket back when she asks:

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“My dad?”

“No. No I ain’t. But you know that, don’t you?”

She nods and shrugs at the same time.

“Mummy says he’s dead. Were you daddy’s friend?”

_Don’t lie, don’t hesitate, or you’ll make it worse._

“No princess.”

“But you are mummy’s friend?”

“Yeah, and also your friend I hope.”

She gives him a dead serious look which is all Carrie, then wordlessly turns back to her shell collection.


	3. Friday Night part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Peter Quinn takes his time out, others get busy. And Dar Adal has a dinner date.

**Interface**

While Peter Quinn takes his time out, others get crazily busy. Keyboards, the new equivalent to the wheel of fortune, clatter all over the country.

Freelancers and staff-members cancel their dates and boot their computers.

 “Reliable sources” get pestered by quirky callers.

Experts rush into studios and explain live and in color about sarin-gas and daesh and the darknet.

Two nameless junior agents feed a machine with data-disks to erase Peter’s past.

Newsrooms brainstorm on a “special”, new and fresh approach to the topic none of the zillion competitors might have thought of before. 

Mark Tryson, high on caffeine and self-importance, collects data, embeds statistics and fills page after page of a lengthy dossier.

A soldier has to go where the winds might blow him.

And Dar Adal has a dinner-date.

 

**The dinner-date**

It starts bad. With oysters and French champagne.

What a clichéd display of ritzy power and savoir-vivre. Dar Adal hates eating living things.

He takes one oyster, not giving away his disgust, splashes a tad bit of lemon juice on it. A sudden shiver running over the slimy thing which proves it is fresh. Alive. As was to be expected in one of the most exclusive restaurants on the East Coast.

He puts the shell to his mouth and slurpes it down, pretending it is just raw egg-white. Nonetheless: Disgusting.

Now he is ready to face the enemy he has to turn.

“So, old chap, why are we here on this lovely Friday night?”

His host, owner of several networks, a big shot in communications, raises his glass.

“First let’s toast to those returning from the dead!”

Adal’s brows raise in disapproval. He doesn’t touch his glass. This man is not as powerful as he used to be. The shareholders made sure of that. And the new media.

“You won’t find anything.”

“So he is one of yours?”

“Now that is no news, my friend. We claimed him to be one of ours right after the attack, if - when - you remember.”

“What I meant, Adal, is: one of _yours?”_

Two men, once on top of their worlds, still capable of doing major damage.

“You better not find anything on him.”

It is a confirmation. They both know.

“Is that why you don’t provide him? Because we might dig something up?”

“No. He is simply not up to it. He is still in poor condition, mentally, physically… a wreck.”

A smirk. “Is he indeed?”

Adal shows his ennuie by finishing off his second oyster.

“We have done human interest in that field before. It suited you well. Distracted people from other issues.”

It always does, doesn’t it.

“Ted. I told you he is in no condition.”

Again that smirk. Mr Newspower*s hand digs into his pocket and provides a photo.

“It’s all a matter of perspective, right? You tell me he is in no condition. I see him taking the week-end off with his girl-friend… ”

The picture gets shoved over the table.

A CC-TV-shot from Walter Reed’s entrance. Date and time on it: Today, 4:19 pm. Peter Quinn, a sportsbag in hand, a dark Beanie covering his head, about to leave the hospital. His arm around a girl. Carrie Mathison. Jesus. How did that happen? As soon as he is out of here, he'll take care of this - _desaster_.  
He should have let Peter stay with that Julia-girl. The guy needs a girl, obviously, a woman on top. He should have known, considering his background… Julia, she was a good girl, down-to-earth, stable, reliable. Big mistake, Adal, big mistake. Affords cleaning off after over and over again.

Adals face doesn’t betray any emotion.

“Ah, you bribed someone at Walter Reed’s. So?”

“Girl-friend? Fiancé? Wife?”

“A colleague.”

Mr Newspower points to Peter’s hand over Carrie’s shoulder.

“A colleague?”

“He can’t walk long without a support.”

“Come on, Adal, don’t insult me!”

Adal leans in to make sure he can use his lowest voice ever. “If you are involved in revealing the identity of a present or former agent, it’s the CIA-basement, as you well know… on all legal grounds. ”

He scored. Mr Newspower takes a breath.

Adal raises his glass. Now is the time for a toast.

“To our brave soldiers all over the world.”

Mr Newspower hesitates.

“Don’t think you have it in the bag, Adal. Print and broadcast you might get on the leash, but we both know there are other players now. It’s no longer a country for old men.”

Now _he_ raises his glass:  “To social media and the internet.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Two on the beach ctd**

_Three hours earlier, on Virginia beach._

 “Are you cold?” the little girl asks and gives Peter Quinn another one of her serious glances.

“No - are you?” He checks her arms for goose pimples.

 “You wear a T-shirt.”

It’s true. This is a beach and everybody wears bathing suits and swimming trunks. Peter Quinn however is in shorts and T-shirt.

“I have a lot of scabs and scars. From when I was sick. I don’t like people staring.”

Franny nods. “Me neither. Mummy says there’s good and bad staring but I hate both.”

“Good and bad staring? What would the good staring be?”

“Like if the grown-ups go ´Oh doesn’t she have lovely curls, oh look at the little ginger`.“ She mocks an auntie’s voice, very tongue-in-cheek. “Mummy says it’s a nice thing to say but it’s sooooo annoying.”

“I get that.”

“Cos you’re a ginger too.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He smiles and keeps quiet.

She goes on fortifying their castle. “If I meet a good fairy and she’ll grant me a wish I want a cloak of invisibility. Then I can go everywhere and nobody sees me and goes "Oh look at the little ginger"....”

“That’s a brilliant wish. If you meet this fairy, will you tell her I want one too?”

“OK.”

After she pressed a shell into the highest tower of their castle, she goes on: “You know, we could swap. If she doesn’t have a second one.”

“Gosh, that is a very generous offer Frannie, thank you so much.”

She doesn’t look up. She is far too busy decorating that tower. A few minutes later she asks out of the blue: “Are you our new Jonas?”

He needs a moment to come up with an answer. “No, Frannie, I knew your Mum way before Jonas.”

She takes it in. “Then Jonas was our new Quinnie?”

Jesus, this girl is grilling him! 

 

**Rituals**

Carrie smiles at her daughter, finally settled in bed, eyes closed, breath even, and intents to tiptoe out of the room.

“Mummy”, a familiar voice goes, “if Quinnie is to live with us we can’t have Jonas around cos we don’t have enough room for both.”

Carrie gives up on a fast escape. She straddles Frannie’s hair. “Frannie, we won’t have Jonas around either way. I told you. Quinn has nothing to do with it. Quinn is a very dear friend and I would be really sad if you don’t want him around.”

“Oh I don’t mind him around. I just wanted to know. Auntie Maggie says she doesn’t know if he is our new Jonas. And Helen says Quinnie is _awesome_. And she says he’s famous, like a singer or a boxer.”

_Awesome_? A boxer? Her niece is into boxers?!

“No, he is no singer and no boxer. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, ok?”

“If he lives with us, can we still go out to restaurants?”

“Sure honey.”

“But he made us run out tonight.”

“Yes, honey, he did. He was - not well. I told you he was very sick and-“

“Oh so that is why? Not because he didn’t want to see himself on telly? They had him on telly when we were there, did you see it,  he looked funny and his hair was so weird…”

Carrie looks at her daughter incredulously. Frannie saw that picture? And she recognized him, never mind the hair-color?

“Aren’t you a smart little thing”, she says and smacks her a kiss. “All the questions you keep asking so you don’t have to sleep…”

***

Carrie finds Quinn sitting on the porch, admiring the sunset.

“Frannie finally asleep?”

“Who knows… What would you like to drink -…?”

He hesitates. It’s not ok with his meds but… “I take what you are taking.”

She smiles, gets herself a glass of wine and without further ado hands him a bottle of beer. Non-alcoholic beer.

He grins. “Thanks. Why did you ask in the first place?”

“I wanted to give the impression you have a say in this. Self-empowerment, you know.”

“Thanks again” he goes.

“You’re welcome… Did she pester you?”

“Naw, she is great… very Carrie…”

“So she did pester you…”

They both laugh.

“Jesus, Quinn, you’re quite a sight when you laugh. How come I never noticed before...”

“How come you all start flattering me… Just because I am the guy who died? Even Adal does it. It’s - unquieting.”

“Adal flattering you? That’s not unquieting, that’s - eerie.”

Another half-smile. “Sorry I shooed you out of the burger-place. I just didn’t want to…”

“I figured. Don’t worry, it spared us Frannie falling asleep on the restaurant table… And it _was_ quite a shock, that picture on the news again…”

“Fuck, I really would have preferred to stay dead.”

“Quinn, that sounds terrible!”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. Still… What about your kid? It’s good he knows his dad’s alive, right?”

Quinn doesn’t look up. “He doesn’t know…”

“What?!”

He doesn’t meet her eyes. “His mother told him I am dead way before…”

“That’s - harsh.”

“She wanted to do the right thing. She couldn’t put up with the constant worry.”

He scrutinizes his beer-bottle as if it contained any secret message.

“That’s what frightens me most. How some idiot might dig them up and go up to him and - tell him stuff and show him - .”

She sees him swallow hard. She moves closer and puts her hand on his arm. It’s a shy, a careful gesture.

“I know”, she says. “Sometimes I look at Frannie and panic. What will I tell her if she asks about her dad. What will I fucking tell her?”

“Yeah, that’s a tough one.”

They fall silent. She removes her hand. They sit so close, the most adorable sunset on display, but worlds apart, each wrapped up in his or her own thoughts.

“Quinn”, she starts after some minutes, “maybe it is not the right time, but I really want to know-”

“Carrie, can we just sit here and say nothing?”

 

**Dwarfing**

Dar Adal can almost feel the oysters poisoning his system. They heat him up. They fuel his anger. They stint his revulsion. Gabriel is the first one to pay for it. He let Quinn out. Contrary to explicit orders.

It takes Dar Adal 2 1/2 minutes to cut 6ft 2 Carribbean smile down to size. Half-size. The guy faces a bleak future, and he knows it. He starts pleading. “He promised to be back on Sunday night, Sir. He will keep his word, he sure will.”

“He better be. If anything - happens, you will be held responsible.” Glancing at the guy, a golden cross visibly dangling around the neck, Adal adds: “Feel free to pray.”

And while he is at it, he might as well settle another unfinished business.

 

Nearly midnight on a Friday night or not, he sets up a conference via satellite. The hospital’s chief of staff, wearing a tuxedo. The chief surgeon, all casual and trying to appear sober which gives away how intoxicated he is. The head of development at the CIA’s technical research unit, surprisingly sleepy eyes, in his pjs.

“We will furnish Peter Quinn with the RIFD implant.”

“The tracking device?” The head of development all of a sudden is wide awake.

“Exactly. I suggest first thing on Monday morning.”

“This is very short term”, the chief surgeon objects. “As we have no experience so far we have to make sure we have all information required, run a few tests... Our anesthetists will have to give it a few thoughts as well. Last but not least the patient needs a thorough briefing about potential risks…”

Doctors!

“The patient won’t get informed. It’s a matter of national security.”

“Sir, you suggest a - covert surgery?”

“I suggest you don’t reveal the real nature of the intervention.”

Bleak silence.

“I correct:” -  a heave of relieve - “I order it.”

“But, Sir”, the developer goes, why on earth does _he_ interject, it was his idea to begin with!, “it is a prototype so he should be made aware of possible - …”

“Gentlemen, this is not a discussion but a briefing. You will act accordingly and leave the ethical concerns to me. To salve your conscience: Imagine Peter Quinn had had the device back in Berlin - he wouldn’t be in this - pitiable state…”

The surgeon bites his lips. The head of development nods slowly.

“Jenkins, you heard the director”, the chief of staff concludes.

 

Dar Adal would call it a night and go to sleep, feeling mostly confident things will work out, if it weren’t for Mark Tryson’s dossier, 1st draft, sent around midnight. A heap of trash. A waste of time and money. The index proves this moron takes his guy for a pop star, blablaing on and on about  cross-media, synergetic effects and sales strategies, about target audience, average ratings, number of clicks…  Not a word on the real McCoy. Good thing he went for the old school approach as well which is due tomorrow: A study on the possible risks by this unexpected media exposure. Including abduction, blackmail, attracting further terrorist activities. Torture to attain information.  
Running away like a 12-year-old won't solve a thing.


	5. A different road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> different decisions lead to different actions and reactions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explicit warning to kitty7  
> explicit warning to everybody not up to Carrie not always behaving appropriate

**Dark enticement**

It is a perfect night. Sitting on the porch, looking at the starry sky, a full moon coming up, white wine for her - lots of it -, silence for him. All relaxed.

Not talking - not about the things they should. Like what he is up to. What he was up to when disappearing. Or writing dark letters.

“Gotta go to bed”, he finally says and gets up, “sleep tight.” 10.30 pm. Why didn’t she bring her running gear?

Otto has recommended a book, “Why nations fail”. She gets her bag and starts rummaging, instead gets hold of the magazine. The one on Quinn she brought over. She pages through, it is all empathetic and caring, “our brave hero” and “lone soul”, “is there no girl willing to give him a little warmth and comfort”-style. No wonder he didn’t want to touch it.  
It’s done beautifully, she has to admit. If you are into that kind of stuff. Maybe too much emphasis on the wrecking part and too loud a call for female rescue.

For lack of better entertainment she decides to go to bed as well.  
She has no real reason to check on Quinn but she does.

He seems sound asleep. She sits down next to him.

She touched him many times before. When he was out. In coma. His body was all hers, in a way. She mended him. Talked softly to stimulate his brain, applied cream to avoid sores. She doubts he’s aware of the extent, probably would hate the thought. She realizes she liked it - the caretaker-role. Also the touching part. So she does it again. She’s entitled to, in a way. She softly touches his faces, then lays down next to him, takes in his scent and his warmth.  Buries her nose in his hair, all ginger now.

It’s not even a conscious decision. She couldn’t really say what triggered her. Just your average hormonal craving? - After the get-lost-shag with Jonas there was no other guy, she needed no-one she thought. The full moon, all worn-out cliché? The sun, firing up the blood? Or maybe the nerve-wrecking thought here lies the man who writes letters about everlasting love and acts as if it never happened. If he refuses to talk, she has to find other ways to communicate.

She presses into him. Her hands move over his body, she whispers his name, it’s a weird game. Yes, she’s overstepping. Yes, she shouldn’t.  
It feels good. She feels good.

She remembers that article, realizes after all he’s been through it might well be he is - impeded. He had a major stroke. Of course it could affect his sex drive, his capabilities, mentally and physically. There is no way she could ask him, maybe that’s why he stays so aloof cos he’s scared as hell. She might as well go for trial and error-

and her hands glide down the length of his body, encircles his navel-

and now he moans and this means he’s aware and he’s in -

and she touches him all over again, tender and teasing and intent on getting him aroused and-

he moans again, her hands moves further down-

her fingers feel pubic hair, all wiry and stubborn, very Quinn in a way, and his cock all erect and he mumbles, as if gagged- “Please don’t” -

“Just relax and enjoy, will you?”-

and that’s all there is to say before she goes down on him in earnest.

Make him lose it. You are in power, on top. Giving. Quinn the one to be receiving. Passive. It is a weirdly tempting thought, she feels him groan again and move and twitch and seize up, her hands explore his inner thighs, fondling his testicles while she enwraps his cock in her mouth and deliberately moves on. Feeling velvety skin, varying the pressure. He tightens up - she slows down. He seems to relax - she speeds up. Adds the slightest graze of teeth. He shudders, all of a sudden his hand comes up and gives her an unexpected shove, her mouth lets go, her hand stays on his inner thigh, the other moves to his belly, her head is close enough to see him come even in the near dark of his room, sees his cock twitch and ejaculate, smells his semen.

All of Quinn exudes heat. Carrie feels at ease with the world. 

“Happy?”, she asks, softly stroking his belly. He mumbles something inaudible. “Let me take care of this”, and she leaves to get a wet towel. His left arm covers his eyes, it’s a pity she didn’t think of some candles, she would have loved to see his face while coming. She’ll be better prepared next time.  
She cleans him up thoroughly and tenderly, a perfect mixture of Florence Nightingale and your next best hooker, she thinks and smiles, leaning over and whispering in his ear: “Jesus, that was quiet! Do they train you for that as well? The subdued black ops orgasm?”

He doesn’t reply. She lays down next to him, fondles his face.  
Realizes he is out. Out like in chemically induced sleep. It feels - awkward.   
One day they will joke about it, she hopes, some “Do you remember the first night I made you come and you fell asleep?” line at hand, and they will both laugh cos they’ll have had many other nights. No doubt about that.  
After an eternity of just laying there and taking him in, his scent, his body, his face, she shuffles off to bed.

 

 

**Heating up**

When he gets up in the morning, he takes it for a dream. A disturbing dream.

Carrie and Frannie sit on the porch, doing a puzzle.

 “Sorry I slept in.” 

The way Carrie looks up, gives him a wink, saying “You needed a good rest, Quinn”, a mischievous smile flashing up, he knows he didn’t. Dream. She did an onslaught in the middle of the night. He feels mortified.  
He thought it was clean and easy for a change. He should have known better. He feels a wave of desperation flaring up and concentrates on keeping it at bay.

“You’re ok?” she inquires.

“I’ll go make some coffee.”

 

Percolated coffee. Complexity factor three. Step one: Check the machine. Find the coffee-powder and the filters. Step two - fill the tank without flooding the room. For the time being however he just stands there, propped up against the sink, trying to hold it together.

“You’re really ok?” she asks in a low voice so Franny won’t hear and puts her hand on his lower arm. Why did she have to come after him and touch him again, why can’t she just stop touching him…

He nods, then realizes this won’t do. He has to tell her now before it all falls apart. He faces her, withdrawing his arm.

“You shouldn’t have … last night.”

“Jesus, Quinn, don’t play the frightened virgin!” She gives him a cheeky smile. “I just wanted to make sure everything is alright with you… these tabloid-stories got me worried…”

He won’t go for the banter.  “I don’t want it”, he goes.

“Why not?” She sounds crossed. “I remember you suggesting to get together and get out together… I mean, we both ARE obviously out but I really want to-“

“I am not.”

“Pardon me?”

“I am not out. Technically speaking.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not before the debriefing. Which I am not up to, Adal says.”

“The fucker… he still keeps you in?!”

Quinn shrugs. “So?”

 “OK, so you’re not out… But you wanted us to be together. Remember?”

“I remember you didn’t.” He starts rummaging for the coffee-stuff.

“That’s not true. I had a lot on my plate. I said I needed time…”

“Yeah right. You went on about how you’re not up to us and went off to Missouri and said don’t bother coming” - thank God he can fiddle with that coffeemachine so he has the chance to avoid her gaze cos it still fucking hurts -  “and said ´we obviously have to talk` in this upset how-do-I-get-rid-of-him-in-a-decent-way-voice… You were all cross and evasive and-”

“and you pissed off to get yourself killed in fucking Syria and never gave me a chance to sort this out! 2 ½ years you’re gone, vanished, next time I see you you go ´doesn’t matter now`…”

 “And it didn’t. And it doesn’t. And just because we kissed once - once - you don’t have the fucking right to gate-crash me and suck my dick!”

“Would you please keep your voice down?! There’s a child next door!”

“OK. Right. Sorry.” He sounds sarcastic but he lowers his voice.

 “So what is your problem, Quinn?”

“No what is your problem? I mean - a blow job nobody asked for? Jesus Carrie!”

 “Fuck you Quinn - you sure are the first guy to complain about a blow job. I mean -  you wanted us to get out together with no sex involved?”

He tries to fill the watertank. His hands shake so badly he has to put down the jug.

“Let me do this”, she reaches out for the jug - but he holds on to it as if for dear life.

“Stop fucking victimizing me…”

Some water splashes on the floor, Carrie lets go and scans the room for a towel to dry it up -

“…because I can handle this fucking coffee machine and I don’t need pity sex-“

“Pity sex?! Why is it so fucking unthinkable I wanted to touch you and to-“

“You make no sense, absolutely no sense… you didn’t want the healthy pack and now you bother about damaged goods, that is fucking sick…!”

“Now aren’t you a brilliant salesperson, Quinn!  I am sorry I just… wanted to… make you feel good.”

“Next time you think I should feel that kind of good fucking ask me for my consent.”

“So there is a next time?” she says, all of a sudden voice soft and tempting.

 “Stop it! I am not in a position-“

“Positions are negotiable…”, she closes the distance, puts her hand on his waist. He closes his eyes. She takes it for giving in. He is not. He’s simply unable to cope.

“Move in with us. I mean it. In New York is full of celebrities and weirdos, nobody will pay attention…  I missed you. I want you to be a part of my life.”

He takes a breath, then another one.

“I am. We are friends. Don’t mess it up, Carrie. Please. Friendship lasts - the other thing doesn’t.”

He won’t fit. Neither mentally, he never did he suspects, nor physically. He’s a cripple, a wreck, they both know it. Plus she doesn’t love him. Never did. Must be her fucking bad conscience or whatever drives her these days. It’s so fucking obvious.

“Adal gave me the letter,” she states out of the blue. He doesn’t react.  “Your letter. The famous-last-words-letter.”

He closes his eyes for a split second, then looks at her, anger flaring in his eyes. “He shouldn’t have. I am not dead yet.”

She crosses her arms and waits for anything else he might say. He doesn’t.

“Quinn: If you love me, why do you push me away?” It’s as simple as that.

“Did it ever occur to you - that might have changed? It was - Islamabad was a dark hole. I was - not well. I started fucking obsessing.”

She feels something cold inside. What if it’s the truth. If he has changed his mind. His heart. But-

“No it didn’t. I know you are reliable. Very reliable. You wanted to die to keep me alive.”

He doesn’t argue, he simply changes the strategy.

 “You had no right to read it.”

“I had no right?! Fuck you, Quinn - you had no right to write anything like this. It was -  cruel and selfish and-“

He is flabbergasted. At least a reaction!

“- why tell me you loved me after you’re gone, so there’s nothing I can say or do, only - remorse or or pity or - you render me fucking sad.”

There’s a moment of silence. He still avoids her gaze.

“I apologize for any sorrows I caused. And now forget that fucking letter.”

“No I won’t! Do you believe that darkness-crap? Like you are under a curse? The only curse I see is you stubbornness and you’re being in thrall to Adal-“

“Funny”, he goes, sarcasm his familiar refuge, “Adal said the exact thing about you…”

At which point they get interrupted, as Frannie breezes in, all excited.

 “Mommy, mommy - there were two bearded guys at the door and wanted to come in…”

Carrie stares at Quinn, Quinn stares at Carrie. All of a sudden their anger turns into concern:  Adal and Saul?

Carrie puts her finger on her lips, gesturing her daughter to be very, very quiet.

“But mommy, they are already in.”

“Jesus, Frannie, you are not supposed to let anybody in!”

“But they said they are God’s messengers!”

Carrie and Quinn, still looking at each other, burst out laughing. There goes your comic relief.

“Frannie, next time God’s messengers show up, call me before you let them in, ok?”

 

They are through with fighting for today, they know it. Even after they got rid of the latter day saints missionaries. It wasn’t a good idea to try and go there in the first place to start with Frannie around. Quinn looks exhausted and tries to talk his way out of going to the beach, but Frannie won’t hear such a thing, she takes his hand and drags him along. At once he seems less sullen, more open to normal life.  
That’s why all these sniper soldiers have a wife and two kids at home, Carrie thinks, even if they are never around, even if they turn to strangers - they need a family to keep them grounded. Quinn needs us, he’s just too headstrong to admit it.

 

**Back to bedlam**

Carrie is about to take Frannie for a swim on her arms, when Quinn’s phone buzzes. The burner phone he got for the weekend. Carrie stops in her tracks and gives him a quizzical look. Only one person knows this number…

He takes the call, concern showing on his face: “Gabriel? … Fuck…”

Carrie gives him an annoyed luck and mouthes “Frannie!”

“F- Da- I mean, that’s bad news. Never was around on weekends… I’ll get my stuff and be there asap…  You’re sure?.... Why didn’t you call right away? … Sure I take them… She’s listening… no, no details… thank you, man…”

He hangs up and looks at Carrie.

“Adal knows I am AWOL… ”

“Shoot. You’re due back then?”

“Don’t know. Gabriel says damage’s been done anyway… but Adal gives him a tough time…”

The phone rings again.

“Don’t”, Carrie goes, “give it to me, I get rid of it so he can’t track you… Do you want me to drive you back?”

He is clearly at a loss. “I don’t want to spoil your beach day. I am sorry… all the troubles you had… I am truly sorry… it means a lot.”

She knows it’s not just about the beach day.

 

Ginger strands in the sink. What a sad sight. But she butchers on.

She shaves his head. She had no choice.  
She tried to talk him out of it, better ginger than bald, but he didn’t give in. She refused to be part of it so he tried to do it on his own, of course he did, and cut himself badly. When he seriously considered asking Frannie for help Carrie gave in and took over.

“We could have re-dyed it, you know. You’ll look horrible... Like one of those Aryan nation half-wits.”

“Surprise, Carrie: Hair grows back. In no time I’ll be my old hippie self.”

“What’s so bad about ginger?”

He doesn’t reply. There’s no need to.

When she’s nearly through, she asks: “Why are you so angry?”

“Am I…?”

She gives him an incredulous look, then slowly shakes her head. “You are unbelievable, Quinn… - never mind.- You really should be moving in with us.”

He doesn’t protest. That’s a good sign.

“First thing Monday morning I’ll set up a date with Dar Adal and talk him into it.”

 “Good luck with that”, he goes.

“Just to make sure: You consent? You will move in with us?”

 “Can we talk about it without-“ and he moves his head a wee bit, pointing to Frannie standing there all eyes and ears. She gets she’s been made and comes over. She looks at the ginger strands, then carefully touches Peter’s near bald head.

“Poor Quinnie”, she says, then whispers in his ear:  “If you hate being a ginger soooo bad, we really have to find that fairy.”

Quinn smiles and whispers: “Not to worry princess, I’ll be fine… “

 

They leave in the late afternoon. It’s an hour’s ride to Walter Reed’s.  
Within 10 minutes, Frannie is fast asleep on the backseat. Quinn looks out of the window, all distracted.

Carrie takes an exit road and stops the car in the middle of nowhere, turns off the ignition. “You still owe me an answer, Quinn. Are you moving in with us?”

He looks at her, eyes all dreamy. So she leans over and kisses him, soft and chaste, then not so soft and not so chaste. It’s not as if he was running away screaming. She feels his tongue probing her teeth and her lips and her tongue and it takes them some minutes before they entangle.

“Let’s give us a try, Quinn. We have a history… it’s not like we jumped at each other and run out of things to say once the fucking gets boring…”

On speaking she realizes this is not why he fucked up his relations - because he got bored. He sure was far more choosey with his women than she ever was with her lays.

“If I move in with you”, he says slowly, “… if we commit…  we do it right or no way at all.”

“Meaning what?”

“If we commit - and you call it off…. if you start screwing around… I will kill you.” He sounds all calm and matter-of-factly and gives her a serious look.

“Jesus Quinn, are you trying to frighten me or is this your idea of a thrilling foreplay?”

“Just saying. Think about it. Take your time. No rush. It’s all or nothing cos I am fucking sick of seeing guys crawl all over you. If you let me in I ain’t gonna take it. It’s killing me, so it might as well kill you.”

“That’s a joke, right?”

“It’s a warning. You take me all or nothing - be aware who I am. Your decision. I won’t push you.”

With that, he shuts up and looks out of the window.

She restarts the ignition.

Thing is, she knows he is dead serious. It makes her spine crawl. He’s right- she should be aware who he is and what he can do. To himself or to her or anybody else.

 

When they reach Walter Reed’s, he’s back to his more compliant self.  
“You sure you don’t want me to come along?”  
“Naw, stay with Frannie… no use waking her…”  
So she drops him at the back entrance. He kisses her good-bye. An open mouth kiss but very careful, very tender. His tongue hardly touching hers. As if he was afraid to get them aroused. He breaks away, looks her into the eyes.

“Take care. I hate good-byes so-“ He pauses. “Take your time. Just don’t  bother coming before you’ve made up your mind…”, and off he rushes.

She takes a look at Frannie, sleeping peacefully in the back-seat, then starts the car.

 

It is a long ride to New York. They could have stayed at Maggie’s but they didn’t ask. Good thing - Carrie feels far too confused to face her always well-meaning elder sister.

She checks in at a nondescript motel next to the highway, parks in front of their allotted parking place and carries sleeping Frannie inside.  
Before she turns off the lights, she sends a text: “You wouldn’t do it. Think of Frannie.”

No reply.

Not even in the morning.

They are already back to New York when he finally answers.

“So you don’t trust yourself.”

“Thing is, you don’t trust me”, she texts back.

She gets no reply, so she sends another message: “???”

“I ain’t playing games any longer. Take your decision.”

It’s the last thing she hears - more precisely, reads - from him for quite a while.

 

**Plotting**

When Mark Tryson enters Dar Adal’s office, he finds him in surprisingly high spirits.

“Ah, Mark, the dossier… sum it up in your own words, three sentences. No off-topics like clicks and such nonsense - just the surveillances results of our ears on terrorist networks.”

“Sir - there are several groups discussing if an attack on him might have a symbolic impact. Nobody getting serious so far.”

“Excellent - only two sentences even.”

“Sir - do you think he _will_ be a target?”

“I sure hope.”

The young man looks flabbergasted.

“Not to worry - that’s why I have him tracked. Rumors are Abu Al-qaduli has a sleepers’  cell installed, right here in the U.S.. I want them to leave their hiding so I can take them out.”

“But - why should they target Peter Quinn, of all 250-plus million Americans?”

“That’s a fair question. Let’s call it an educated guess. His nephew was the one trying to execute Quinn online. He got shot. …  The question is, will Peter seem an appropriate symbol. A former agent, mutilated for life…”

He looks at Tryson, expecting a clever answer. Tryson gulps. He is not up to Adal’s mindgames. “I suppose not, Sir.”

“Right, my lad… not now, but he will be. Thanks to her”,  and Adal points to another dossier on his desk, “Carrie Mathison…”

“For who we have scheduled an appointment in the afternoon.”

“Exactly. ”

Adal rubs his hands, exuding self-assurance.

“Ah, Mathison and Quinn, they have a history…. To cut a long story short: She wants him to move in with her, all happy family. Which comes in quite handy because she is the chief of security of our presumable next president. As her partner, he will have to take part in her life. So there might be some doors open into the immediate surroundings of power.  He’ll have to take public exposure to a degree - a lot of our leaders are dying to be seen with him, our brave soldier…. Everything Peter hates. Everything I couldn’t lure him into… everything which makes him a legitimate target for a terrorist attack. He’ll do it for love, and he’ll be our bait.”

“Do you want me to get some donuts for her?”

“Oh no. Don’t get her anything. Not even a coffee.”

“But…”

“If I am too friendly, she’ll get suspicious. I want her to walk out of here thinking she wrangled out from me what she wanted. I want her to feel all victorious”, and he smiles.

 

 

**Ballroom blitz**

Another half hour before his shift starts. Plenty of time for a soft drink and a quick scan of the surroundings. Rob drops in at the top-floor bar, deciding on mineral water, his lady told him to slim down and he hates the taste of artificial sweeteners, too bitter, too dishonest for him, pretending something they aren’t. He casually checks the room - his eyes stoop: This  guy a few meters off, sitting on a bar chair, back to him, dark suit, dark hair - something about his demeanor seems strangely familiar - but it can’t be, or could it?

He walks up. Un-fucking-believable! “Hey Asshole!”

“Hey dickhead!” Peter Quinn turns around, gives him an embarrassed grin.

An embrace, male way: pats on the shoulder, boxing against the ribcage.

“What are you up to, man? No longer on permanent vacation? Look at youse! The suit-”

Rob rubs the material, nods approvingly.

“the shirt, the tie… And a mineral water! Didn’t know you’re back to work again, Peter. You’re a walking miracle!”

Peter looks flushed. “Good to see you, dude. Your one of the personals now?”

“Yeah. The lady said enough, now get serious.”

He shows off his hand with a wedding-ring.

“Poor her”, Peter comments. Through his display of brazenness he still looks like a kid caught nicking chocolates.

“Shit, Peter, I am sure glad you’re back to good. ”Rob gives him another slap on the shoulder. “I should have come, I know… but those hospitals really freak me out ever since-“

“I know. No big deal.”

“Thanks, dude.”

“Fuck off.”

 “OK, then - a toast to absent friends?”

They clink their glasses.

 “We have to get together some other time. Do this properly, with good old Scotch…”

“I’d love to… So, you live in NYC now? Kids already in the making?”

“Bet on it!… Yeah, we moved to a nice neighborhood in Queens. What about you?”

“Manhattan… Actually, I am not with the security. It’s more…”

Before he has spoken his mind, a petite blond woman in a pant-suit breezes in, grabs his arm, her lips touch his hair for a quick kiss, before she starts pulling his sleeve.

“Quinn, come on, gotta introduce you to Elizabeth…”

Rob harrumphs.

“Right… Ah, Carrie, this is Rob. Rob - Carrie.”

Carrie gives Quinn an inquiring look. Rob smirks.

“A very dear former colleague. And vice versa.”

Carrie gives Quinn a shove with her elbow and shakes her head. Rob’s smirk gets even more amused.

 “Great to meet you”, he states and proffers his hand, “now tell me why a nice girl like you ends up with a pain-in-the-ass like him.”

“Because you were already taken”, she says with a wink, then embraces Quinn and drags him along out of the bar.

On leaving, Peter gives Rob a sheepish grin. His buddy has never seen him happier.

Rob finishes his water, then moves on. Work is waiting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,  
> is this an adequate ending? Or does anybody need more angst and action? Let me know, I might reconsider...


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